


Satisfaction

by songlin



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Dirty Talk, Frottage, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Smut, Tickling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-18
Updated: 2013-03-18
Packaged: 2017-12-05 17:40:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/726021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songlin/pseuds/songlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Horrible men can watch me masturbate from across the room and <i>suffer.”</i><br/>“Can horrible men try to convince you otherwise?”<br/>“Horrible men can <i>try.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Satisfaction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [snogandagrope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snogandagrope/gifts).



> snogandagrope donated to my red panda cause (GOAL NOW REACHED ASFALSKDJG) and requested the following: _Johnlock sweet porn with bonus Apokalypsis! Sweet porn to include some to all: body worship, rimming, suck jobs, frottage, tickle fight, nibble bites, John nibble bite Sherlock's feet (tickling hilarity in the middle of sweet hot porn). Wew!_
> 
> I worked in as much as I could get. Enjoy!

They’d been sharing a bed for about a month when it happens, so altogether it isn’t out of the blue. But then, a man can’t be expected to remain totally unruffled upon waking up with his dick mashed up against somebody else’s bollocks.

John freezes mid-hump. “Um.”

Sherlock groans and buries his face in John’s neck. “Oh, God, don’t _stop.”_

John pauses anyways to take stock of their situation and limbs.

Consulting detectives (1): sitting astride him and more or less bodily _pinning_ him, frankly. Hands (4): one pair squeezing the fine, bare thighs that were spread wide and planted on both sides of John’s hips, another pair braced against the mattress, arms sandwiched between John’s ribcage and arms. Knobs (2): one still tragically pants-bound and the other naked as a jaybird, both enjoying a bit of the old Princeton rub.

Sherlock shifts just enough to press their cocks together and hitches his hips. John sighs blissfully and shuts his eyes.

“Yeah, keep going.”

Sherlock pushes up onto his elbows and keeps going.

“Does this happen often?” John asks. “You, molesting me in my sleep.”

“You started it,” Sherlock accuses.

“I did _not_. If I had a habit of sleep-humping, someone would’ve mentioned it by now.”

Sherlock’s mouth spreads into a lazy grin. “What can I say? I must be exceptional.”

“Yeah, you bloody are,” John murmurs. His hands roam upwards, grab two handfuls of that fine, plush arse and _squeeze_.

Sherlock gasps. _“John._ Oh— _oh—_ I’m—” He grits his teeth, tosses his head impatiently and kicks up the tempo.

“God,” John marvels. “How long were you at it?”

Sherlock grunts and doesn’t answer.

“Christ. Must’ve been at least half an hour.”

Sherlock whines. His hands tighten into fists.

“What was it like?” John’s voice has come over husky and hoarse. As if it were possible to _not_ be overcome when Sherlock looks like _that,_ all sweaty and flushed and fucking _desperate_ to come. “Did you wake up with me hard against your arse? Did you grind against me and moan? Did I push back? How long before you realized I was still asleep? Before you rolled me onto my back and climbed on top of me and started rubbing your cock against me, or after? Were you afraid I’d wake up and catch you?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “No,” he chokes out. “Wanted you to wake up just before I— _ah—”_

“Yeah,” John says, squeezing Sherlock’s arse and thrusting up _hard,_ “yeah, just like that, come for me—”

He feels Sherlock shudder a moment before it happens, before Sherlock’s spine snaps straight and his mouth drops open. This is the part John _adores,_ because the way Sherlock looks as he comes? It’s incomparable.

His eyes drift shut and the tension in his forehead slides away. He grabs at whatever he can reach—bedsheets, headboards, John’s shoulders—and hangs on like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the planet. He tries to breathe deeply through it, every time, and every time he’s reduced to panting, gasps sawing in and out of his body and shouting out hoarse, breathless cries as he shakes and shakes and _comes_.

“God, that’s fucking gorgeous,” John says, when Sherlock’s gone limp and trembling and sagged against him like his bones have melted. “Come here, love.”

He guides Sherlock down beside him. Sherlock still appears to be functionally sans skeleton, and lets himself be arranged on his side in what appears to be a comfortable enough position. He rouses himself to move far enough to get his face within kissing range of John’s shoulder before dropping limp again.

“I need a shower,” John announces.

Sherlock makes a disagreeable noise.

“So do you, genius.”

“Later.”

“You’re sweaty and smelly and covered in splooge.”

In response, Sherlock throws an arm and a leg over John and scoots in close.

“I expect you think that’s quite clever.”

“Quite,” Sherlock says smugly.

“In that case, allow me to propose a rebuttal. It follows as such...”

John pokes Sherlock firmly in the stomach. Sherlock jerks away with a laugh so violent it’s almost a cough. It morphs into a furious scowl almost immediately.

_“John,”_ he says darkly.

John grins and pounces.

The original twofold end goal was simply “get Sherlock off, haul dual arses into shower,” but that gets lost track of in favor of “tickle Sherlock til he cries laughing.” Between the deep, belly laughs and the flailing limbs and the _slight_ tendency to lisp just the _tiniest_ bit which John will never ever _ever_ mention again, it’s enchanting _._ Even the bits when Sherlock starts threatening him with evisceration. _Especially_ the bits where he threatens evisceration, considering “evisceration” has got a great long sibilant in the middle.

John backs off when he’s laughing too hard to continue. Sherlock flops onto his back on the bed, wheezing, just before John rolls _off_ of it.

“I hope you’re satisfied,” he says in a tone of exaggerated peevishness. “You’ve thoroughly molested me twice in one morning.”

“I will be if you say ‘satisfied’ again,” John says, and cracks up.

“You are a reprobate, John Watson,” Sherlock declares. “A deviant and a fiend.”

John picks himself up off the floor and shimmies out of his pants. “Put those in the laundry basket. They’ve got your spunk all over.”

_Sherlock is in no way going to put them in the laundry,_ John muses as he steps into the shower. This is basically fact. They will probably turn up a month later someplace utterly mortifying, like the loo doorknob. Again. Such are the small sacrifices one makes when sleeping with a mad genius.

The selfsame mad genius is currently pushing the shower curtain aside and stepping into the shower. “I got bored,” he says by way of explanation.

“Fine. Pass me the shampoo. No, not your poncey overpriced nonsense, my shampoo.” He scrubs it into his hair and misses his regulation haircut a little.

Sherlock sniffs. “If you are accusing me of—”

“I don’t think I need to accuse you of vanity. That ship’s sailed.”

It had sailed when John saw the inside of Sherlock’s closet, which was deceptively small on the outside. It had circumnavigated the bloody world after Sherlock got into an almighty strop over a cut on his cheek. It didn’t scar in the end. Not that you’d have guessed from how he reacted.

John strokes a thumb over where it had been and smiles. “Good morning.”

Sherlock wrinkles his nose. “We’ve been awake for nineteen minutes. ‘Good morning’ is functionally pointless at this juncture.”

“Well, I’m saying it anyways. Good...” —he smacks a kiss onto Sherlock’s chin— “...morning...” —his nose— “Sherlock.” —and his lips.

Sherlock kisses back with enthusiasm. John grins triumphantly against his mouth. He scruffs his fingers through Sherlock’s wet hair.

“Give me your poncey shampoo and I’ll wash your hair.”

There’s shampoo _and_ conditioner, as a matter of fact. John likes this part, though. He gets to comb his fingers through Sherlock’s lovely dark curls, Sherlock gets a scalp massage, and John gets the _noises_ Sherlock makes when he gets a scalp massage.

They’re obscene, really. John’d call them sex noises, but honestly Sherlock isn’t half so vocal in bed. He probably does it on purpose so John will wash his hair more often.

“Mm,” he hums, tipping his head back. John digs his thumbs into the base of Sherlock’s neck and massages the tension out. _“God,_ yes, that’s good.”

“Your voice,” John says, “is a fucking crime.”

Sherlock grins.

The shampoo’s well rinsed out of Sherlock’s hair, but John’s not done yet. He massages Sherlock’s shoulders with the heels of his hands and then works his way further down his back. And, well, if he takes the opportunity to cop a feel, who’d blame him?

“You are a sex-crazed maniac, John Watson.”

“Am I now?” John muses, leaning in close enough to bring his erection against the back of Sherlock’s thigh.

And honestly, it’s an accident. Or some sort of muscle memory.

The point is, John rubs his hands down Sherlock’s sides and scratches his fingers a little, _just a little,_ and Sherlock jumps like he’s been electrified.

John stifles a giggle. Sherlock looks _murderous_.

He sniffs. “I’m getting out.”

“You are _not_. You never get out without using your poncey conditioner.”

“Watch me.”

John does. At length.

“You know I hate to see you go, but God I love to watch you leave,” he calls after him.

Sherlock makes a pained sound. John smirks.

He’s not smirking a minute later when he emerges to find Sherlock spread-eagled on the bed, wanking luxuriously. God, is he ever going to stop being so arrestingly beautiful?

John swallows. “Your refractory period is supernatural.”

Sherlock’s eyes just barely open, two slivers of glittering green-gray. “Eleven minutes isn’t impossible,” he says, and rubs one hand down his chest.

“Improbable though.” John drops his towel and crawls into bed.

“No.”

“No?”

“Horrible men can watch me masturbate from across the room and _suffer.”_

“Can horrible men try to convince you otherwise?”

“Horrible men can _try.”_

“Don’t mind if I do,” John says. “Legs up. Hands off.”

Sherlock obliges. John kneels between his legs and strokes lightly up Sherlock’s thighs. Sherlock regards him suspiciously.

“Beautiful,” John says. “You are... _breathtakingly_ lovely.”

“Flattery.”

“Honesty.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitches up. It’s not a smile, at most only a suggestion of one, but John’ll take his small victories.

John bends and kisses the inside of Sherlock’s knee. Sherlock twitches.

“Tickles?” John asks.

Sherlock shakes his head. “No, it’s...good.”

He makes his way up from Sherlock’s knee, brushing gentle, dry kisses over his thigh, hipbone, stomach, ribs, collarbone.

He’s so lean. Not skinny, but _lean,_ tall and slender and long-limbed and wired with muscle in unexpected places. John rubs his thumbs over Sherlock’s biceps. Sherlock shivers. His eyes have gone soft around the edges and his pupils are wide and dark.

“Still good?” John murmurs.

Sherlock’s eyes slide sideways. He bites his lip and nods. John smiles.

“Good.”

He dips his head again and presses his mouth to Sherlock’s neck, just under the curve where his jaw meets his ear. God, yeah, there it is. Sherlock inhales sharply and squirms, reaches up and clutches at John with both hands. John’s not even using teeth or tongue or _anything,_ he’s just feeling at Sherlock’s skin with his lips. That alone is enough to get Sherlock writhing, and that is _captivating_.

John wants to tell Sherlock this, how perfect he is, but he’s got a more important duty at the moment. He drags his teeth over Sherlock’s skin and Sherlock just moans, high and shocked. He draws his legs up, dragging one foot up the back of John’s leg and then settling with his legs locked around John’s hips.

“Convinced already?”

Sherlock growls and pushes John’s head back down. John retaliates by catching Sherlock’s earlobe in his lips and sucking it between his teeth. Sherlock whines.

“You’re still horrible.”

John grins. “You have no idea.”

Sherlock moans and presses his erection up against John’s. John’s breathing breaks. Sherlock’s hard as diamonds and fucking _dripping,_ and John still hasn’t come, and he wants to hump his way to orgasm and then let Sherlock lick him clean and he wants to fuck him slowly til he cries and he wants to taste every inch of his skin and he can’t actually do all of that in one morning.

So he’ll pick.

To buy him some time, he turns Sherlock’s head towards him with his hand on the back of his neck and kisses him. Sherlock fights for hard and fast. John refuses to be bullied and keeps it just as slow and as deep as he can. Sherlock’s hips undulate under him and John sees stars.

There’s that decision made, then.

“God, I could just fucking _eat_ you,” John growls.

“Yes,” Sherlock hisses, and squeezes his legs tight around John’s waist.

“Here’s what I’m going to do,” he says, with just as much army-issued command in his voice as he can muster. “I’m going to kiss you from your forehead to your toes, and neither of us are going to touch anybody’s cock til one or both of us is just short of actually combusting. Then I’m going to fuck you til you come screaming. Got it, Einstein?”

Sherlock appears to be shocked speechless. John is going to count that as a win.

He doesn’t start with Sherlock’s forehead, because he’d forgotten how lovely it is to kiss the top of his head. His hair is still damp, only just curling back into shape.

It’s a fun exercise, this. An excellent excuse to kiss the bits of Sherlock normally left unmolested, and honestly there’s not an inch of his body that’s not worth admiring. John kisses his forehead under his fringe, where there’s a bit of scarring from a mishap with some prosthetic makeup, and over his eyebrow. He kisses over Sherlock’s eyelid and smiles at the touch of Sherlock’s eyelashes against his lips. He avoids Sherlock’s lips entirely, because there’s no coming back from _that_. John lingers under his jaw and Sherlock issues his approval with a throaty moan.

Then there’s Sherlock’s _neck_. John could spend _hours_ on his neck alone, does sometimes, as a matter of fact, but today he restricts himself to one long, slow, wet kiss over his Adam’s apple. Sherlock makes a _sound_. John introduces his teeth and that sound goes suddenly sharp and reedy, and Sherlock clutches at John’s shoulders.

“Tease.”

“I’m a horrible man,” John agrees, and bends to latch his mouth onto Sherlock’s nipple.

Sherlock gasps and cries out. Judging by the way he’s moving, he’s losing patience. _Already_. There’s more John wants to do, so much more, but from the look of it he’s not going to get around to all of it. He grimaces against Sherlock’s skin. Sherlock feels it and just sort of—whimpers.

“God. _Please,_ John.”

John sits back and grits his teeth. Sherlock groans.

“Don’t stop, why are you—oh. _Oh.”_

John has crawled down, taken hold of Sherlock’s ankle and is kissing the sole of his foot. His other hand is on the back of Sherlock’s calf, feeling for the little shivers of delight that ripple through him whenever John kisses him very lightly on his instep.

“There is no reason that should be so—” He shivers. “No reason it should be so arousing.”

John quirks an eyebrow up at Sherlock and sucks his second and third toe into his mouth.

Sherlock gasps and arches up off the bed. His hand flies towards his cock, but he catches himself and balls it into a fist on his stomach instead.

“Oh God, John, your—your _mouth—”_

John swipes his tongue up one toe and sucks. It tastes...clean, which makes sense. He’s just taken a shower, after all. Like water and soap and a little like Sherlock.

The man himself is twisting inconsolably.  “Oh please, _please,_ I need—God, just _fuck me somehow.”_

Fucking Sherlock is...doable, for sure, but it’s not conducive to John’s goals at the moment, so he sits back instead and lays out his plan of action. Sherlock protests a moment, but then he realizes what John’s after and his eyes go wide.

_“John.”_

John grins. “Spread ‘em, sweetheart.”

Sherlock does.

John strokes lightly up the backs of Sherlock’s thigh, lifts his leg and rests it over his shoulder. Sherlock’s breath catches. John grins, winks, dips his head and licks a slow, wet stripe up Sherlock’s cock.

_“Yes,”_ Sherlock says fiercely.

John drags his closed lips back down the shaft. His mouth breaks open over Sherlock’s balls and he keeps working back as Sherlock tilts his hips up and spreads his legs wider.

“Get _on_ with it, John,” Sherlock snaps, and just for that John’s tempted to leave off entirely.

But not too tempted.

He touches his tongue to Sherlock’s arsehole.

Sherlock gasps.

John’s cock throbs heavy and hot between his legs. He squeezes it once, just enough to ease the ache, and licks again.

He is slow and gentle and stays that way even when Sherlock gets so he’s practically sobbing with arousal. There is a hand in his hair and one on his shoulder, both gripping so tight it’s just painful enough to set John’s teeth on edge. He wriggles his tongue around the outside of Sherlock’s arsehole and, with a little thrill of triumph, works it in.

Sherlock yanks at his hair. “Don’t stop.”

John stops.

Sherlock makes a furious noise, but then John’s wrapping his lips around the head of Sherlock’s cock and sliding his mouth down and complaining becomes the last thing on Sherlock’s mind.

“Oh God—John— _John,_ I’m—”

Squinting a little with the effort, John swallows Sherlock’s cock down, and Sherlock stiffens with a shout and comes. John works him through it, sucking until he goes limp and lets out a long, vocal sigh.

John sits back and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. Sherlock’s eyes widen.

“Let me,” Sherlock says.

He takes John by the hips and rearranges them so John’s straddling Sherlock’s face, hands on the headboard and cock nudging Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock opens his mouth and sucks the tip in. John gasps.

“Nngh. Not going to take long, love.”

Sherlock hums in acknowledgment— _around John’s dick._ John groans. Sherlock swirls his tongue around the crown and sucks half his cock into his mouth in one movement, and John clenches his hands on the headboard.

He’d give Sherlock a heads-up—it’s only polite—but he’s irrationally afraid that if he opens his mouth to speak then he will make the sort of noises that the married ones next door interpret as a challenge and that prompt Mrs. Hudson to leave them politely-worded notes about keeping it down. So he clamps his jaw shut, reaches for Sherlock’s hair and whines through his teeth. It must be enough, because when he comes a moment later while loudly making That Sort of Noise, Sherlock is ready for him.

When he’s finished, he collapses sideways, narrowly missing Sherlock’s face.

“Consider me convinced,” Sherlock croaks.

John grins.

“I maintain, however, that you are horrible.”

John gets the giggles again.


End file.
